I step back into the kitchen and throw my arms out. “Better?”
“You look very snug.”
“So I can go now?”
“Ahuh, just don’t stay out there too long; our insurance doesn’t cover frostbite or moodiness.”
With an obviously sarcastic laugh, I hurry for the door.
“Just one more thing,” Mom says.
I wait for her to keep speaking. She’s clutching her coffee mug with both hands and chewing the inside of her cheek.
“Mom? What is it?”
She sighs. “Nothing.”
“Great!”
I let the screen door slam shut behind me.
The river isn’t flowing when I reach it. It’s frozen over. An intricate pattern of crystals dance across the surface.
Carefully, I reach out and press down on it with my boot. I want to know if it will crack under my touch—if under that ice there is still flowing water.
Nothing happens so I press harder.
Still nothing.
Man, it’s frozen solid!
So this is my new plan. Be like the river. Frozen, hard, unbreakable.
Jasper doesn’t care about me. I don’t care about him.
That’s all there is to it.
A breeze rocks the barren branches of the trees above me, and I can almost make out a hint of sun behind the clouds.
I open my sketchbook and draw. Pictures flow out of me like they haven’t since before the Harvest Moon—the way they used to before Jasper consumed my every waking thought. I draw so long my nose is dripping and my lips are chapped by the time I realize I should probably head home.
There’s a lightness in my step and I let my lungs fill with cold, refreshing air as I make my way back through the woods. I’m not going to chase someone who doesn’t want to be chased. I’m not going to waste any more time pining like a lovesick pup.
Stepping inside feels like entering a new climate. Every winter Dad says his feet get cold and turns the heating way up, so the kitchen is always sweltering. I shed my layers of winter clothing as fast as I can and drop them in a pile by the door.
“Don’t even think about leaving those there,” Mom says, coming into the kitchen holding an envelope.
I gather up my coat, beanie, and two sweaters and make to pass her when she holds out the letter.
“This came for you. Must be important—we don’t usually get mail on a Sunday.”
She slips the letter between two of my fingers and I head upstairs with my bundle of clothes.
The second I’m in my room I drop everything except the envelope and turn it over in my hands.
My stomach drops right out of my ass.
On the front my name is written in a familiar and foreboding cursive.
